


Formication

by viceroyvonmutini



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Swearing, as usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 14:31:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6911038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceroyvonmutini/pseuds/viceroyvonmutini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sensation like small insects crawling all over the skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Formication

**Author's Note:**

> prompt(s): 'IT Intern Root and helping a bratty, bored Shaw' combined with 'Shaw is scared of spiders, and so is Root.'
> 
> I pulled out my file of prompts and dusted it off (literally) and picked out a couple that might gently drop me back into writing. Also because formication is probably my third favourite word and I literally never get to use it ever.
> 
> There exists, on my hard drive, a slightly...more explicit version of this fic. I wrote two endings. Depending on the responses, I might be bullied into posting the second, more adult themed version of this story.

When she signed up nobody told her about this stuff. It was all action: glossy promotional brochures that she did anything but read (one, she distantly recalled, ended up as a pseudo-towel mopping up spilt instant ramen from the floor of her tiny, one room student digs), with men in mid-pose taking out the bad guy. Guns and dense jungles and powering through tough terrain and getting the job done. That was the Marines. That was what they sold to her.

Admittedly, she wasn’t technically in the Marines currently. In fact, the Marines could go fuck themselves as far as she was concerned; nothing personal, but she was allowed a little skepticism and/or latent anger at any Government Affiliated Military Organisation at this point. She hadn’t been in the Marines for years really, but even after everything she looked back on her time with a sort of fondness. She wouldn’t go as far as yearning, but fondness definitely; for the place, a place where she fit seamlessly in with the crowd for once – where she didn’t have to fit in with the crowd, she just had to get the job done. And she did. She did it well too.

But she wasn’t in the Marines. She wasn’t even with ISA anymore. So that might explain why nobody told her about this stuff, because this stuff – reclusive billionaire has direct link to all-powerful robot and saves lives with two meant-to-be-dead CIA operatives, a debatably-sane nerd, and a dog – wasn’t covered in the manual.

If she had known, maybe she wouldn’t have signed up. If she had known, she definitely wouldn’t have signed up for this particular mission, because sitting for more than 5 hours without break, at a desk, in a small, windowless, grey office cubicle was not what she signed up for. At all.

Shaw leant back in her chair. It sank back with her, hovering somewhere between “ready to recline” and “sort out your posture” so that it actually exerted muscular effort to keep the seat in this position, allowing her to slump down. She pushed herself round, spinning slowly in place and watching the glaring fluorescent lights pass by one after one after one after…

‘Ms. Shaw.’

Shaw spun.

‘Any news on our number?’

‘Well Finch,’ began Shaw, continuing to spin, ‘I wouldn’t know.’ The com. line was silent: whether that was because Finch was busy, or because he had nothing to say, Shaw didn’t care. ‘Because I haven’t moved in over 7 hours.’

There was a faint cough in her ear. It might even have been a little guilty.

‘Ms. Shaw, I –‘

‘Save it.’ Shaw stopped her spinning, sitting up – the chair back snapping behind her at a 90 degree angle to the seat – and pulling herself toward her computer. ‘He hasn’t moved either. Has actually been doing his job though.’

The number was a mousy man in his early twenties. No prospects, and completely unspectacular; just out of college, with a mountain of student debt and recently employed at an insurance company call center in a cubical directly across the narrow corridor from Shaw’s own.

‘Anything come up?’

‘Not in his online records: he’s completely clean as far as a student in crippling amount of debts can be. No unexplained phone calls, no outstanding dangerous connections. He’s clean.’

‘About as boring as he is then,’ muttered Shaw.

‘Not everyone is cut out for guns, Shaw,’ chimed in Reese, particularly unhelpfully.

‘Yeah well, not everyone is cut out for the slow destruction of their soul either.’

‘Welcome to the corporate machine, Sameen.’ That sing-song voice seemed to drag its nails across a chalk board every time it spoke, all with that feeling of revulsion mixed and the unwilling fascination at how such a repellent sound could possibly be made, pulling you in closer to try it again and again to maybe see if it’s a fluke, or if you can make it worse or something.

‘Root.’

‘Hello sweetie. Did you miss me?’

‘No. Finch, what is she doing here? Reese has me covered.’

‘I’m afraid even I can’t control Ms. Groves.’

‘Nothing to do with him,’ chirped Root.

‘The Machine.’ Shaw practically growled out the words. It was always the fucking Machine, dragging Root along on _her_ missions like she needed extra-protection. Like Root actually contributed anything to her missions except needless chatter and looking pretty. So she sometimes shot things, sure, but it was mainly Shaw. And Shaw could handle herself perfectly well without a super computer babbling away in her ear anyway.

‘She needs me here, Sameen.’

‘For what?’

‘I don’t know yet-‘

‘Or course not.’

‘But I’m sure I’ll find out.’

‘Yeah? Well stay out of my way.’

‘Out the way of what, sweetie? Your office cubicle?’

‘Shut up.’

Surprisingly, Root did. The com. link went silent in her ear, replaced by the constant buzz of the ceiling lights, and Shaw frowned at her blank computer screen.

Pulling herself closer against her desk Shaw pressed experimentally at a few keys on the keyboard, waiting for the screen to light up. The Internet was, within company employee networks, largely restricted: any site not strictly relevant to the work – so, most of them – was blocked. Shaw wasn’t any Root on these things, but she knew enough to hack into a secure nuclear facility or three; she had swiftly handled the basic office defenses barring her from an online game of Bubble Shooter.

But as she waited, pressing a few more keys, and still waiting, then clicking the mouse quite vigorously, and still waiting for a change in the black screen, Shaw thought it might be more entertaining to throw the screen against the wall of her cubicle and get the fuck out of here.

‘Finch,’ she all but growled, ‘a little help?’

‘Ms. Shaw? Is everything alright?’

‘You tell me Finch. You’re the one with security camera access.’

Finch coughed. Nervously this time. ‘I’m afraid your cubicle doesn’t-‘

‘You don’t even have eyes on me?’ This time, it was definitely a threatening growl. She was working with a bunch of amateurs.

‘Ms. Shaw if you just-‘

‘Nevermind. Just tell me how to fix this. The computer isn’t working.’

‘I’ll be there in a bit sweetie, just hang tight.’

‘Nobody asked you Root. Finch?’

‘Ms. Groves is right, her cover might be most…apt…in this situation.’

‘Cover?’

‘Yes, it seems-‘

‘Don’t ruin the surprise Harry,’ chided Root, as if to a child.

Shaw spun violently away from her computer screen, staring defiantly at the weird grey felt type-thing that lined the walls of her cubicle, willing it to combust on its own so she didn’t have to punch a hole in it.

‘Stop sulking Sameen, everything will be alright.’ As if she was were soothing a child. Shaw clenched her jaw, spinning round again back to her computer in further defiance: she didn’t want to seem to _welcome_ Root into her cubicle in any way shape or form because she might hate this fucking _cubicle_ but it was _her_ cubicle and Root was not-

‘Hello sweetie.’ Sickly sweet. Airy. Light. Fucking pain in the ass. Shaw didn’t reply, staring at her blank computer screen like it was more interesting than whatever Root could possibly have to offer. Shaw could feel the pout coming on, like a shift in the air pressure or something.

‘You should at least say hello.’

‘No.’

Root chuckled and Shaw heard her step forward. She knew what came next, tensing ramrod stiff as Root bent unnecessarily over her shoulder. The woman was ridiculously…tall. Lithe, if Shaw were feeling eloquent, and she knew it, and she knew Shaw knew it. There was something about it: everything about Root was slim and silky. Like her hair, now draped over Shaw’s shoulder, hanging and brushing lightly against Shaw’s white work shirt. Shaw didn’t turn her head as Root leant over her left shoulder. She stared straight ahead.

‘What seems to be the problem Sameen?’

‘Say it louder for the people in the back, Root.’ Literally no professionalism on missions, thought Shaw. At least ISA had followed procedure. Like not yelling an operative’s real name when behind enemy lines. Basic procedure.

‘Relax sweetie,’ Shaw was still trying to pin down why Root’s voice was so fucking annoying, but she was preoccupied at the moment by the proximity of Root’s face to her own. She could see out of the corner of her eye (Involuntarily. It wasn’t like she was sneaking glances at Root. Obviously.) the delicate wireframe glasses Root sometimes wore undercover. They suited her. Root should have been the one sat in the office. Personable, good with computers: they could have been done with this number by now, and Shaw could have been outside with Reese on security duty and away from the cramped, claustrophobic environment of an office.

‘Just fix the computer Root.’

Shaw felt an arm reach around her neck as Root positioned herself behind, hands meeting on the keyboard. Shaw looked straight ahead, watching as Root pressed a few keys experimentally.

‘I tried that.’

Root pulled away (finally) and stood up. She was, it seemed to Shaw, as if she were a giant in the tiny space, ridiculously long legs and gangly arms. Root might have been more uncomfortable in here than her, mused Shaw. She spun around, looking up at Root from her office chair, arms folded across her chest.

Root had assumed a thinking pose: one elbow supported by an arm across her flat chest (not that Shaw even thought about Root’s chest, it was just a fact. It was a nice chest.), hand practically stroking a beard on her chin. With the wireframe glasses and the fetching pantsuit she almost looked like she knew what she was doing. And wasn’t just doing it all to piss Shaw off.

‘Root.’ Shaw’s voice was a warning. ‘Just fix the thing.’

Root shot her a smile, still verging on patronizing. Shaw wondered why she put up with it. Put up with Root.

‘Patience Sameen. I’m just trying to think of what could possibly be the matter with it.’

What was it with Root’s voice? Shaw was now staring, openly, at Root –glaring, really. Root seemed ignorant of that fact, though she wasn’t. She was always perceptive but with Shaw she was doubly so, aware of everything. It was flattering, really, to be glared at so ferociously. Root didn’t let herself grin.

‘Ask the desktop in your ear, Root.’ The answer, for Shaw, was obvious.

Root tilted her head, doing that sympathetic pout thing often directed at Shaw and often with the express intention of _pissing her off,_ like she was missing something really obvious, when she wasn’t: Root was just being difficult.

‘Sameen, I can’t ask Her to fix a mere Windows Desktop Computer Circa 1996. That’s not fair.’

‘We didn’t win a robot war for you not to use the fucking robot Root.’

‘Not a robot Sameen.’

‘Not the point Root. Just fix it. And get out.’

Root made a point of scanning the tiny office space carefully, slowly turning a 360-degree circle. ‘Didn’t know you were so attached to the place.’

‘I’m not.’ This time, Root met Shaw’s stare head on, letting the silence drag. When it suited her, thought Shaw bitterly, Root really knew how to be silent.

‘Just fix it.’

Root beamed. ‘Anything for you sweetie.’

She dropped to her knees. Straight up collapsed onto Shaw’s gross, grey-carpeted cubicle floor with no warning and reached behind her, tugging off her moderate high-heels the company forced all women to wear, even IT interns, which seemed ridiculously stupid and completely not helpful when fighting off any potential threats.

‘Root.’ There was a question somewhere in her tone. Sometimes Root did things that were…surprising. Out of the blue. Fucking weird.

Tossing her shoes to the side, Root crawled past Shaw’s chair – Shaw spinning to follow the woman’s movements. It was completely surreal. Root was not small enough to be doing this – not _compact_ enough to be credibly crawling across her carpeted floor. It was an awkward movement for Root, or at least her legs too long to manage as they did most of the work, and Root hunched comically as she slid under Shaw’s desk. Shaw realized it was better not to question. Root would never give her any answers anyway.

Head now firmly under Shaw’s desk, Root let her legs straighten out. Shaw thought she heard a thump, but Root didn’t mention it and Shaw was happy to let the knowledge that Root had probably whacked her head hard against the bottom of her desk be kept to herself. Serves her right.

Prostrate on the ground, Root was doing this sort of weird wiggly thing with her hips to position herself into place, like a pathetic army crawl. Shaw leant back in her chair, kind of enjoying the spectacle and expectant for results.

‘This is your solution?’

‘Do you have anything better to suggest?’ Root’s voice was kind of muffled by its position deep under Shaw’s desk, where she was presumably wrestling with wires. And yet it still did that thing. That annoying thing. Like insects crawling all over her skin; everywhere all at once with little pattering feet, both activating her body’s defense systems, tensing her up ready for attack, but sending shivers all through her body she could never suppress and weren’t wholly unpleasant. That was Root. Like an insect.

‘An insect.’

Shaw snapped her eyes to Roots head, or in the direction of it. ‘What?’

‘An insect nest.’

‘What?’

Root tried to back-crawl out from under the desk, shimmying her hips against the rough carpeted material until she was just laid flat on Shaw’s floor, toes touching the other end of the cubicle. Root rolled onto her back, looking up at Shaw.

‘There’s a little pack of spiders down there. Some got into the wiring.’

‘I hate spiders.’

‘So do I.’

‘I need a shower.’

‘You need a shower? I touched one.’

‘I’ve been sat here all day, Root. With spiders.’

Root sat up, staring at the wall. She shuddered. Shaw almost found it amusing. If she too didn’t fucking detest spiders. Like fine, if they stayed in their line. In their little corner. If she didn’t know they were there.

‘Finch.’

‘Ms. Shaw?’

‘I’m leaving.’

Silence. Root watched Shaw. Sat there. Both of them. Immobile. Eyes locked. It was moments like this when Shaw couldn’t deny they had this…thing. That kept coming back to haunt her.

‘Finch? Still there?’

‘Yes. I don’t understand Ms. Shaw. Has the number moved?’

‘The number’s fine Finch. John?’

‘Shaw?’

‘Can you get a security station on this floor?’

John thought about it. ‘Yeah. Why?’

‘I need to go with Root.’

It was Root’s turn to look surprised, eyebrows shooting upward. Shaw dared her to say something.

John grumbled. ‘Why do you always get the fun ones?’

‘Because Sameen is much nicer to look at,’ chimed Root, still sat on the floor.

‘Shut up Root.’

‘And when can we expect you back?’

‘Harry,’ definitely patronizing, ‘you know I can’t answer that. She doesn’t exactly tell me these things.’

Finch sighed. ‘Very well Ms. Groves; please inform the Machine, however, that a little advance warning wouldn’t go amiss.’

Root rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll pass on the message.’ Root cut the coms. and Shaw followed suit. Both were still sat, unmoving.

After a couple of minutes Shaw stood up, stretching out slightly and surreptitiously trying to alleviate the numbness in her left bum cheek. She’d been sat for a long time. She looked down at Root, still sat on the floor, legs blocking the exit. Root looked back up. Shaw extended a hand. Root had the decency not to make a face – a flirty one or something more horrific – but simply took the hand, dragging herself upwards. Once upright, Root brushed off her suit, before crossing the cubicle in about a stride to pick up her discarded shoes.

‘Once we’re out of the cubicle we’ll have to make like we have somewhere to be.’

Root finished slotting her foot into her remaining shoe, and shot a smirk at Shaw. ‘I’m sure you can manage that sweetie.’

‘Can you?’

Root gave her a look that said ‘who the hell do you think I am’ and Shaw couldn’t’ help the little tug of her lips.

‘Let’s go sweetie.’

The two strode out of the tiny cubicle into a tiny corridor, forcing them to walk single file with Shaw following Root. Both walked with purpose, heading straight for the elevator. Root pressed the button and they waited, Shaw impatiently.

‘Can’t you speed it up?’

Root had gotten used to this by now: Shaw’s assumption that she suddenly had the ability to like, mentally control all electrical objects for their convenience.

‘You know She can’t do that sweetie.’ Actually, She could. She’d offered a few times too, but even Root drew the line at utilizing the powers of a God to speed up a lift, or traffic lights, or whatever else was grating on Shaw’s patience that particular day. Well…most of the time.

The elevator chimed, and the doors opened. John stepped out. He gave them a subtle nod – the most he was really allowed in their cover identities – before walking past. They entered the lift together, doors closing behind them as Root pressed the button for the ground floor. Neither of them said anything – cameras in the lift – but Shaw kept her eyes on the red number slowly (much too slowly in her opinion. If you have a supercomputer, why not _use_ it?) descending to 0.

Root shifted as the elevator came to rest on the ground floor. Doors opening, the two strode out into the empty lobby area. Walking past the receptionist who barely acknowledged them, not really knowing who they were as ‘recent employees’, they reached the revolving door. Root went through first, Shaw second. Shaw was happy to follow Root as she led them away from the building: from Finch’s sphere of influence.

Root stopped on a street corner, Shaw coming to rest next to her; both ignored the swarm of people around them, forcing the crowds to part. Root tilted her head imperceptibly.

‘She’s covered for us with the company.’

‘Do we have a mission?’

Root gave her a look. ‘No.’

Shaw nodded once. She was not going to mention what just happened.

‘Abandoning the mission because of spiders.’

But apparently Root was.

‘Root.’

Root was smirking, but didn’t push any further. She knew full well she’d been about as freaked out as Shaw and if anything, Shaw had probably done it more for her than herself - not that Shaw would ever admit that. It had been a sort of unspoken joint decision to leave really, like the atmosphere in the cubicle reached a tipping point and both decided guns: yes. Nest of spiders: no.

The number was being watched by John. He was safe. John could handle it. That was what Shaw kept telling herself. She couldn’t quite identify why she had just upped and left but somehow, it was definitely Root’s fault.

‘This is your fault,’ said Shaw.

‘Whatever you want to tell yourself sweetie.’ Root left it that. Shaw was happy with Root leaving it at that because she had just spent the majority of her day sat in an office cubicle with spiders and she did not need a session of psychoanalysis to top that all off.

‘We’ll have to come up with a fake mission,’ mused Root. Shaw scowled but said nothing. Should be easy enough.

‘Fine.’

Silence. The noise of the city seemed to hold their attention, just listening. Basking in the city, or maybe instead in each other’s company.

‘What now?’


End file.
